I bɔra i ka so, i nana i ka so

I bɔra i ka so, i nana i ka so. You've left your home, you've come to your home. This traditional Bambaran saying, signifying the enduring hospitality of the Malian people, is the best way I can begin to describe my trip back to my village of Makili.

Having the opportunity to return almost two years after being evacuated was an extraordinary experience. In one sense, everything just felt normal. I've come back home. The village, the environment, the friendships were just as I had left them. Even my house, somehow still vacant after my departure, was returned to me for those three weeks.

I yala yala'd, walking throughout the village, joining people to chat over tea. My language came right back, along with the memories and the names of the people whom I shared them with. I spent all of my time in the company of friends, not really doing much, but doing exactly what I came there to do.

This was not the ideal season for a visit. It is currently cold season in Mali. Although this may bring a welcome reprieve from the intense heat, it also means that the people of my village are busy during the days cutting rice in the fields. But despite all of the work, my friends in Makili really made me feel appreciated.

They gave me a warm reception upon my arrival, and before leaving, threw an amazing ɲɛnajɛ (celebration) in my honor. A goat and several chickens were slaughtered for me during my time there. For the celebration, for everything, they refused any help from me.

Despite all of the positives, I'd be remiss not to mention the harsh realities which face this country. I knew that conditions were difficult, but somehow, after spending time in Kenya and back in the US, everything felt more real. I knew, of course, how dry this region is. But breathing through the incessant veil of dust and trekking through trails of sand after a long reprieve really put the harsh environment into perspective.

Outside of my celebratory meals of rice, peanut sauce, and meat, I was again reminded of the nutritional challenges as well. My carb-heavy diet of moni (millet porridge), to (millet cake with leaf sauce), and basi (millet cous-cous with sauce) took some getting used to. And the lack of proper sanitation, coupled with the communal means of eating, lent me to suffering a nostalgic bout of amoebic dysentery.

I knew how poor government services, particularly education, are in Mali. But after asking my host-sister Fatoumata what grade she is now in, my heart stopped. Fatoumata, the girl who every night enthusiastically sang the educational songs they had learned in school that day, the girl who showed such academic vigor and promise, quit grade 5.

I should have left it at that, I should have known it wasn't her choice. But after being in Kenya, where primary and secondary schooling is compulsory, I forgot. I asked her why she left as she always loved school. She looked away as a nearby woman replied that she has to look after the animals and the house. Without any educated professionals to look up to and a perceived lack of opportunity, why should parents invest in their children's education when it is unlikely to amount to anything?

Challenges aside, this trip was above all a homecoming for me. My ties to this village and their amazing sense of community are as strong as ever. In every sense, Makili truly is a second home to me. I am thankful to have had this opportunity to return and finally leave on my own terms. Though I will be back again.